


I Could Be Your Morning Sunrise

by raven_aorla



Series: Time Out of Mind [10]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bechdel Test Pass, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Femslash, Fluff, Hamilton Lyrics, Historical References, Past Internalized Homophobia, Relationships in Different Stages, Sorry it took so long for this series to pass The Bechdel Test, Yes Jane Austen is in this, and Branwell!, and she's bff's with The Bronte Sisters, can be read independently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7205600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long-married couple. Two young women on their fifth(?) date. Recently wedded mothers-to-be. What they have in common is easy to guess.</p><p>This fic shines a spotlight on each of the three major f/f relationships in this AU. Work and chapter titles taken from Mary Lambert's "She Keeps Me Warm". It can be read independently from the rest of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. she says I smell like safety and home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In high school, I asked a friend of mine why he was so flirty and tactile with female friends but timid with male ones. He said it was because he didn't have romantic feelings for women, so it was fun and inconsequential, not something that could lead to intense feelings. With other boys it _mattered_.
> 
> In reverse, this is my explanation for why I write femslash relatively rarely, as opposed to my copious m/m works. Thanks to my own history, I have to delve deep and open up. But I need to write this. I hope you enjoy.

"Jesus tapdancing Christ, Molls, what happened?"

Deborah had just walked in the door, a little before six. Molly was already in her pajamas, had wrapped herself in a blanket, and was huddled on the couch with a stack of National Geographics somewhat on the coffee table and otherwise on the floor or her own legs. 

"I wish I didn't care," Molly said dully. She flipped through a magazine without looking at the pages.

Briefcase down, wingtips kicked off, jacket hung up. Deborah went to protectively loom over her wife. "Okay, who do I need to kill?

"You're sweet. Sit with me." Molly tossed away the magazines and the blanket in order to cling more effectively. "Today was among the shittiest days I've had since I've switched to working in a psych ward. More than any of the ones with incidents that literally involved someone shitting a bed or their pants from rare side effects or something."

Deborah kissed her temple and stroked her hair. "That's pretty damn fucked up." 

"Mm. Oh, I checked on the slow cooker. It's just keeping the stew warm now. Dinner doesn't need our involvement until we want to eat it."

"Great. I'll do the dishes after. What can I do right now to make you feel better?"

In wordless answer, Molly pressed a slow, tender, but nonetheless emphatic, kiss to Deborah's lips. It was only natural to wrap her left arm around Molly's waist and thread the fingers of her right other hand through that soft hair. The kiss lingered, comfortable and replenishing - like a lizard sunning itself, needing to be warm before it could move again. 

After all these years together, their mutual choreography had become ingrained. They could improvise without mistiming the basic steps. Molly leaned back a few degrees, Deborah's arm steadying her. She lightly traced Molly's eyebrows with her index finger, kissed her closed eyelids. Then on the neck, right at her pulse point. Let her sigh into it. Let her match her breathing and heartbeat, not too fast and not too slow.

This wasn't the revving-up sort of touching. This was the settling-down, grounding sort of touching. It had taken much longer to learn.

Eventually, Molly was ready to take a more active role, rubbing a hand up and down Deborah's spine, where the tension always grew and coiled through the day. She nestled against her. They fit. They knew how to fit. 

"I wish I could tell you more," she murmured.

Deborah wrapped both arms around her. Sometimes she wished they could merge for a little while and be one organism, cover each other's frailties. Like that cartoon about super queer lady gemstones that her niece and a few of her staff really liked. But only way she knew to handle casualties and sorrow was to write her own deliverance. To learn the truth and light it up, dissect it, render it understood and notable, make it unable to haunt her anymore. When Molly got worked up over confidential stuff that couldn't be dealt with like that, Deborah felt adrift. 

"Maybe you could talk to coworkers about it? Like, the ones who might make you feel better." Deborah had been the audience to many a rant about Molly's confusing rivalry with Kitty Livingston in Catering, for example. 

Deborah had met several of Molly's coworkers over the years, and was especially fond of two of the other nurses at Vernon. Paul Revere had been her close friend for decades, a real sterling guy. He'd given her a loan to help her launch her news site. Though introducing her to Molly had been the best thing he'd ever done for her. Meanwhile, John Hancock had negotiated for Deborah to be permitted more access to the less sensitive medical records from Vernon than most people would. Her team had been working on a story about a hideous potential healthcare bill that would have slashed benefits for psychiatric needs. 

She knew Molly got along well with Eliza "It's a Good Thing Our Marriage is Stable Because That Woman is Far Too Lovely a Human Being" Schuyler, too, along with a few others. Doctor Washington's wife had struck up a rapport with Molly during employee-plus-one events. And so on.

"I want to run and cry on Martha Washington's shoulder, but since she doesn't work there, I wouldn't be able to share details." Molly said, muffled by Deborah's chest. It wasn't the most substantial of chests, and Deborah was happy with that, but Molly was well and truly ensconced in there. "I wish I didn't care so much, especially about the ones who are all fractured inside. Have you heard the Greek myth about some women doomed to try to carry water from one place to another, but their vessels are full of holes? I feel like that, except instead of carrying water to a place, I'm trying to get it to suffering people."

"That's why I'm the kind of person to meant to fight the villains, not fix the victims." She tucked Molly's head under her chin as if it would facilitate the melding process. "You're both, baby, you know that, right?"

"I don't really want to stop feeling, because that's what makes it meaningful, but..." Molly pulled back just enough to look Deborah in the eye. "I need to stop wasting time on tears."

"I wouldn't call it wasting time if it helps you." Gauging the situation, Deborah decided they could use a little levity. "Your allusion reminds me. Did you see that new viral tweet going around demanding that Buzzfeed make a 'Which Tormented Resident of Hades are You?' quiz?"

Molly gave her a crooked smile. "They've got to include Hades himself, right? Just like a similar quiz for Dante's Inferno would require Satan as the ultimate prisoner."

"Persephone's definitely on the docket. Am I changing the subject too soon?"

Shaking her head, Molly further untangled herself and started gathering up the magazines, making a stack. "I'm going to let it rest. Did you hear about a new op-ed on the Nellie Bly musical that made a reference to you?"

Deborah's eyebrows shot up. "Maybe tell me more over dinner? If you're up to it. I've been ravenous for hours and don't want to be tempted to literally eat you."

"You mean the tears of your enemies haven't filled you up?" Molly gave her a crooked smile and put the stack in the middle of the table. 

"I appear to metabolize them too quickly," Deborah said with exaggerated regret. "I'll change into pajamas too. Seems silly to change twice when we could be having a bittersweet slumber party."

"Best kind." Molly let herself be helped up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ship has been adapted from the one in the amazing "Nightstalker" series by OscarthegrouchILOVETRASH. 
> 
> While researching my own iteration, I learned some things that I must share with all of you right this second:
> 
> \- Deborah Sampson really was friends with Paul Revere, who advocated on her behalf that she be given back pay and a soldier's pension for her service while disguised as a man. John "Huge Signature" Hancock made it happen. 
> 
> \- Paul Revere once gave Deborah $10 to help with debts, too.
> 
> \- Molly Pitcher was probably a nickname for Mary Ludwig Hays, who famously took over a vital role in firing a cannon during the Battle of Monmouth. She was one of the groups of women Martha Washington organized, camp followers, who among other things provided water and first aid to soldiers. 
> 
> \- There's a connection to the musical! Her big moment happened during The Battle of Monmouth. A lot more soldiers would have died without women like her, especially the water part: "A thousand soldiers die in a hundred-degree heat." (From "Stay Alive")
> 
> \- Molly Pitcher might also refer to Margaret "Captain Molly" Corbin, another camp follower who assisted with a cannon at a critical moment in battle. She was the first woman to receive a U.S. Military pension.
> 
> \- Why Molly Pitcher? "Molly" was a common nickname for women whose names started with M. Imagine soldiers dying of heatstroke (or needing to cool a cannon) crying out, "MOLLY! PITCHER!"


	2. we look so good together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:
> 
> \- implied background abusive relationship  
> \- brief homophobia

Sybil would never subject the boots that she wore for her part-time job at a riding school to the wear and tear of mundane walking around. Now that she'd you-can't-fire-me-I-quit-ed from her loathsome paid internship, she'd have a hard time getting another pair for awhile. However, today she was wearing lovingly maintained equestrian-style, rich brown leather knee-high boots with brassy buckles. They made her look tall, and sleek, and powerful, and, and...

Peggy stopped staring at them before Sybil became convinced Peggy had a shoe or foot fetish. Which wouldn't be shameful or anything, but Peggy keenly remembered how long it took before she and Stephen had realized both of them were just pretending to prefer doing it by candlelight. Her gaze traveled to Sybil's torso and its associated attractions, but they hadn't yet gotten further than eager, clothed fumbling, so was that appropriate?

Fortunately, Sybil was engrossed in the portrait in front of them. The museum was having a special exhibit on late 18th/early 19th century artists and craftspeople. Even a silversmith. 

"I wonder why so many of the men have a hand tucked into their jackets," Sybil mused. 

Peggy cautiously took Sybil's hand, and was rewarded with a light squeeze. "One of the plaques around here probably explains the symbolism".

"Eh. I prefer to pretend that they're either about to perform a magic trick, or they have the sinking feeling they've left their wallets at home." Sybil grinned. "Hey, you see that middle-aged man with the neon tennis shoes? See how he's staring at us?"

"Um..." Peggy had been aware of her interest in both boys and girls since she was twelve, but she'd never had a serious girlfriend. She was barely back in the game again after she'd turned down Stephen's marriage proposal fifteen months ago. The conclusion that she loved her work at Vernon and her nearness to her sisters more than she loved a good man who needed to move far away had led to an amicable but painful breakup. 

She'd told Sybil that she was still getting used to being with a date in public, let alone a female one. Sybil promised baby steps and encouragement.

"It's because we are unbearably sexy." Then Sybil darted to a display case full of delicate metalwork, from jewelry to fancy cutlery.

Peggy wanted to feel more composed before facing the mischievous crinkles around Sybil's eyes.  
She examined some beautiful woven cloth, likely made by some woman whose name had been lost to time. Typical. This was all fascinating, but she wished they'd revamp it and include more women in the sequel.

They'd come early on a weekday they both happened to have off, so they had this particular gallery almost to themselves. Mister Neon Shoes had left once he was done gawking. The not-immediately-obvious-gender-presenting person, who was pushing a stroller, was slowly examining all the stereotypes. Literal stereotypes. Peggy hadn't known that "stereotype" originally meant a premade template that a printmaker could use as a shortcut.

"That's oddly delightful and meta," Sybil commented when Peggy drew her attention to it. She slid an arm around Peggy's waist as though it was the natural accompaniment to her sentence.

Their little bubble burst when a teenage girl came rushing towards them. She looked and sounded frantic, strands of her long black hair escaping from her ponytail and all her accented words coming out in a tearful rush. "Please, see red coat men? They ask where I went, please lie."

"Of course, sweetie," Peggy said immediately, using the voice she employed when a patient started sobbing for reasons unknown to her.

"What are they up to?" Sybil growled. The girl just shook her head and ran off.

The person with the stroller wandered off towards the gift shop, murmuring to the gurgling child, and for a moment they were alone. 

Then three guys in matching collegiate sports team jackets, red ones, marched into the room, with the sort of wide and stompy body language designed to take up as much space as possible. "I'll ask the dykes over there," one of them whispered, apparently unware of how great the acoustics were in this room, thanks to the polished floors and low ceiling. Another one put an empty can of (contraband) soda on the floor, in the corner of an alcove, and left it there.

There were imaginable circumstances in which it might have been worth pausing to hear their side of the story. After less than three seconds, though, Peggy had an even fiercer instinct to keep them from finding the girl.

Sybil let go of Peggy and said, in an unaturally cheerful voice, "Baby, I think I gotta run to the necessary, as they would say in those days. Female troubles." 

"You should definitely do what's necessary. Be quick about it, though. I really want to go see your mom's favorite artist after this." Peggy was now using the voice for getting someone who wasn't ready to handle scissors to put them down, without worsening their distress. The danger and urgency tucked into a gentle parcel.

At first Sybil walked at a normal pace in the direction of security desk. Then she was out of sight, and only someone familiar with the sound of her gorgeous boots would have picked it out from the various footsteps in the relatively crowded halls. Only such a person would have known she'd broken into a sprint.

Despite being a few years younger than her, these three made Peggy think of every time she'd ever been catcalled or hit on. Every time she'd wished someone would step in, or that she could feel safe doing more than edging away, politely rebuffing, or avoiding going to places alone. Places her brothers could go alone whenever, including after dark. 

Also they must have made a solemn vow to bathe only in Axe. Yeesh. _Your body spray smells like your daddy's got money. And, like, his money's the only way you got into college._

"Hey, have you seen my girlfriend? We had a little misunderstanding and I want to fix things. I feel real bad about it." Mister Slur tried to sound apologetic. Peggy had heard that someone from the First Floor Men's Ward recently claimed his Tourette's was the only reason he was caught with his hands down his (enthusiastic) roommate's pants. This was flimsier.

She injected as much supposed shock and sympathy as she could into her reply, and made an educated guess about what would best throw them off balance. "Oh no, and now your double date's all ruined! That's terrible!" 

Mister Slur's friends were hilariously horrified, cringing and stepping away from each other, but he talked over their splutters. "She's from the Philippines, pink purse, white pants. Slim."

"Does she go to school with you three? It can be tough on a social group when two members of it are on the outs, no matter the age, but I think students have it the worst. I hope you can talk things out -"

"Did you see her or not?"

She wouldn't let him have the scissors if he were in her art room. Maybe not even glue, in case he ate it. She'd worked with a very nice elderly woman suffering from pica as well as a panic disorder, though, so perhaps it was unfair to lump her symptomatic glue-eating in with this pufferfish of a kid. 

Pufferfish can still hurt people. "Yes, yes I did. She looked like she felt bad, too."

"Did you see where she went?" He was slightly too close now. Taller than her. 

"Are you sure you don't want to give her some time to cool off?"

"Just tell me where she went."

"Okie-dokie. She asked us for directions to the modern art wing. She said looking at Rothko was just what she needed to calm down." Peggy then gave them unecessarily detailed directions to the modern art wing, and the permanent Rothko exhibit, which was the farthest from their current location. Sybil's mother had an unhealthy devotion to Rothko, outmatched only by Sybil's loathing of all his work, everything he stood for, and the horse he rode in on. 

Peggy waved them goodbye. Then she flipped them off behind their backs. Childish but satisfying. She was ninety percent certain Sybil had understood.

About twenty minutes later, those boots walked towards her again. She didn't need to turn around. "I can see why that person was reading the description of the sterotypes for so long. And the stereotypes themselves. Printmaking in general, what details they left in, what they left out, what and who got overlooked or barely mentioned thanks to those details..."

"I told security that three guys were making us and other people uncomfortable, and also littering. And that they were heading for ol' Mark "Color Chunks" Rothko."

Now Peggy needed to turn, so Sybil could see her smile. "Did you really call him that?"

"They hear things like that all the time. Anyway, you lied and I warned. Go team."

"I wonder what that was really about, but I don't think we have to know, you know?" _That's solidarity. We'll never be truly free unless we think of rights as for "you and me"._

"Yes, I know that no, we don't have to know." Sybil's bangs were mussed. Peggy wanted to muss them worse.

It was her turn to be bold. "We've covered a lot already. If you don't currently have a huge craving for Winslow Homer - as all humans do from time to time - I've got a bit of an adrenaline rush going..."

"Mm, I like the sound of that. Can I call you 'baby' when I'm not hoodwinking asswipes in red jackets?" Sybil put her hands on Peggy's shoulder's and playfully steered her towards the exit.

"If I can call you 'dearest', sure." Maybe she'd let Peggy paint her one day. Being heroic and swift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Inspired by specific BAMF moments of their historical counterparts. 
> 
> \- Notable Patriots like Philip Schuyler basically had targets on their backs, you know?
> 
> \- This portrayal of Sybil is based on someone I went on three amazing dates with...sigh...


	3. not crying on sundays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to:  
> \- Abortion  
> \- Being distressed by religious upbringing  
> \- Past suicide attempt  
> \- Treatment for alcoholism  
> \- Potential emetophobia triggers (nothing explicit, only discussed)
> 
> Besides obligatory Hamilton and "She Keeps Me Warm", contains:  
> \- Gratuitous English Lit jokes  
> \- Spot the bonus 1776 reference!

"I know I'm not the person you most want to see right now, but your Jane's become extra sensitive to carsickness lately."

Martha Manning stopped pushing her baggage cart for a moment to wrap her arms around her friend, who also might be described as her wife's "babyauntie". "I missed you too, Charlotte." 

"Hello yourself." Charlotte Brontë was on the delicate side when it came to her physical frame - her imagination not so much - but she commandeered Martha's luggage and thrust it forward like she intended to bulldoze her way through the airport-arrivals crowd.

A combination of jet lag and three weeks in the U.S. made Martha nearly get in the wrong side of car. Charlotte only giggled a little. "How was the wheat conference in Kansas?"

"So boring that I felt guilty wishing for a tornado to spice things up. A small one." Martha wrapped herself in a blanket Charlotte pulled out from the backseat. "The unexpected filthy rich Frenchman paying my way to visit my old friend was a much more interesting development."

"Emily mentioned. A marquis! Sending you to the wonderfully-named Charlottesville, Virginia! It knocked me sideways when I heard. You must tell us about it next time you're over for tea. Both Emily and me at once, so you don't have to repeat yourself."

"And Anne." Anne was their stay-at-home sibling, clinically agoraphobic and often forgotten. Despite this, she was just as smart and talented as her sisters. She'd become a significant parent figure to Emily's children after Emily got divorced and moved back home. She was also Branwell's sobriety companion as much as possible. Brontës stuck together. Martha was grateful Jane had met them through the sisters' writing club. 

"And Anne. You'll have to tell Branwell separately when he gets out of rehab. Do you know what convinced him to stay when he got depressed and restless on his second day there?" 

"What?"

"Wanting to be a healthy father to Jane's child." Branwell was determined to be more than simply a sperm donor. For Martha, that more than made up for all his weaknesses. 

"He's such a sweet guy. I hope he quits for good." 

Martha was too tired to say much on their way home to Hampshire, but she listened to Charlotte's passionate description of her new novel. The premise was a 19th century woman who suffers from mild psychosis, the sort of thing that could be treated and managed in modern times but definitely not then, and her abusive husband uses it as an excuse to keep her locked in the attic. 

"But she can hear everything that goes on downstairs. Her husband is trying to seduce his foster daughter's governess. She can't let the poor woman get drawn into his web of lies, and starts a campaign of defiance. I'm thinking of calling it _Jean Hears_."

"Neat," Martha said. She fell asleep during the description of Emily's current project, some drama about adultery and wailing peaks, but she trusted that Charlotte would be understanding.

Charlotte helped Martha get her two bags up the front steps and into the elevator. Jane answered the door before they had time to knock. Martha didn't hear what Charlotte said, barely felt Charlotte's kiss on her cheek before she walked away, thought nothing but Jane, Jane, Jane.

"I'll get 'em later," Martha said. "My luggage will be fine in the foyer."

Jane pulled her close for a kiss. She'd taken the day off from being a tour guide at Westminster Cathedral so that Martha wouldn't come home to an empty flat. Her pajama pants were starting to strain. She'd need to switch to maternity ones pretty soon. Her hair was uncombed and frizzy. Her shirt had old jam stains. Martha didn't look that much better herself. It was perfect. 

When they separated, only by an elbow-length with arms still wrapped around each other, Jane teased, "You were gone a week longer than you said. Do you have no consideration for my poor nerves?"

"I'm sorry, sugar. I couldn't pass up the chance."

"Of course you couldn't. I'd have scolded you if you did." Jane took her by the hand and tugged her along. "We both need showers and I need to touch as much of your lovely dark skin as humanly possible."

"That's your line? Fine then. I've missed your pallid butt - ow! You pack a pinch."

"You relish it, Miss Manning."

"It is a truth universally acknowledged." 

It was their bathtub with their showerhead. Their dragonfly decal stuck near the top left corner of their mirror. Their soap dish that could never hold a bar of soap without it slipping off. Their fuzzy blue bath mats. Their crooked shower curtain. Just over three weeks away, and everything was shiny and new to her. 

"I really do need to wash, though, so I suggest saving the more demonstrative loving for later." Jane got the water temperature slightly hotter than she liked it best, which was slightly colder than Martha liked it best, and therefore acceptable to both. 

Martha finished peeling off her gross travel clothes and stepped under the spray. Jane followed and commandeered the bottle of body wash. "You've grown."

"I have. It looks like I'm smuggling a cantaloupe. Soon I'll be too nervous to sit on you."

 _One woman with hands full of body wash suds. One woman with 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner and not afraid to use it. Both will leave this bathroom clean._ "Eh, that's just one of many options. Why are you so insistent that you need a shower rather than say you're here to keep me company?" 

"Sicked up breakfast." Jane shrugged as if her being unwell weren't a hideous catastrophe. At least from Martha's perspective. 

"I'm going to smack Branwell with a wet noodle."

"It's hardly his fault if his genetic contribution somehow led to a fussy fetus." 

"That's why a wet noodle. Doesn't hurt much. Unless we're talking pool noodles." Martha suddenly thought about John, a specific memory they'd only whispered about after he'd turned off the light in his shoebox of an apartment, and suddenly she couldn't breathe.

"Darling?"

"I'm okay."

Jane thoughtfully spread scented lather around Martha's torso. "You mentioned John Laurens before, I think. Long before, when we were discussing parenthood, and why you could never bear to be the one bearing."

"There's no one who can match you for turn of phrase." Jane's first book would be hitting the press in a few days, and Martha was sure it would blow everyone away. _Snark and Sensitivity_ took every bit of wit and insight Jane regularly showed in her non-heteronormative advice column "Persuasions", and distilled them into a comedy that was supposedly about romance, but secretly about sisterhood. 

"Martha."

"Close your eyes." It was a game of theirs for each of them to not be allowed to wash herself when co-showering, only her wife. Like a sexy yet whimsical team-building exercise. Martha was careful with Jane's long hair. "Yeah. Both of us came from conservative religious backgrounds we were drowning in. Instead of being able to talk about it, we had seriously ill-advised sex, trying to fix ourselves and only screwing each other up."

"All you told me was that an old friend drove you to your abortion and paid for half of it. Let me do your back."

"I dreamed of Hell that night." Martha pressed her hands against the wall and let it take some of her weight. Dreamed, not nightmare-d, because her dream-self had felt like the suspense was over, at least.

"I'd love to get my hands on all the people who made religion a chain around your neck, instead of a source of strength and comfort as it should be." Jane kissed the back of her neck like she was breaking an invisible seal.

The water would get cold if they took too long, so Martha swapped bottles with Jane and they entered Phase 2. "John had it worse. I found out he was gay without telling him the truth about me. I screamed at him for making me an 'experiment' despite having attempted him as a cure. I was terrified and aching and I'd been called wicked by so many people. Directly or as blanket statements everywhere. Let me get your legs, hold still. He tried to kill himself. I'm sorry to talk such heavy stuff right after getting home. I've been holding it in. I couldn't handle saying it without your hands on me."

"Then have my hands on you. Tip your head back and I'll help you rinse. Do you consider John intelligent?"

"Yes."

"Did you have a pleasant time with him?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to make up whatever sins you believe you've committed against him?"

"So much yes." Turning off the water, Martha felt cold, which was appropriate. Better to let Jane grab her own towel first. 

Jane grabbed both, and both hugged and rubbed them try. "Respect his forgiveness."

What could Martha possibly say to that? What else could she ever do for John, who'd called her 'Martian' right away, like the years had been nothing but a hiccup, who glowed when she replied with 'Earthling'? And she thought she was so smart. Eventually she managed: "Huh."

They didn't get properly dressed, only putting on robes. They blow-dried their hair. They set an alarm so they could have a small nap without completely throwing off a healthy sleep schedule.

"I missed you." There were things that the homilies and hymns didn't teach her (like loving Jane). There were also things they'd taught her which she'd spent ages unlearning, was still unlearning (like feeling unworthy of Jane's love). 

There were a few things she'd kept, though. Like the New Testament story of rich men giving away huge sums, and a widow giving only a tiny amount - "the widow's mite". Jesus telling his disciples that she'd given a much more valuable gift, for she had given _all she had_. Maybe that's what she could do for Jane (skin against hers, holding her, her clever words in her ear and for her sake, Jane, Jane).

"You have bewitched me, body and soul."

Martha burrowed into Jane's blanket cocoon, letting her feel rather than see her smile. "I will not lie here and listen to you quote yourself."

"Oh, but that was a new one." Jane put a hand lightly between her shoulderblades, proving they were in real space together again.

All she had, Martha promised in her mind. Respect _his_ forgiveness and give _her_ all she had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from Mary Lambert's "She Keeps Me Warm" (I highly recommend the music video, which is essentially a short film of two adorable women getting together)
> 
> She says I smell like safety and home.  
> I've named both of her eyes  
> "Forever" and "Please don't go."  
> I could be your morning sunrise,  
> All the time, all the time,  
> This could be good, this could be good
> 
>  _Chorus:_  
>  I can't change, even if I tried  
> Even if I wanted to (2x)  
> My love, my love, my love  
> She keeps me warm, she keeps me warm
> 
> What's your middle name?  
> Do you hate your job?  
> Do you fall in love too easily?  
> What's your favorite word?  
> Do you like kissing girls?  
> ...Can I call you 'baby'?  
> Yeah, yeah
> 
> She says that people stare  
> 'Cause we look so good together.
> 
> (Chorus)
> 
> I'm not crying on Sundays  
> I'm not crying on Sundays  
> (Love is patient, love is kind)  
> I'm not crying on Sundays  
> (Love is patient, love is kind)  
> I'm not crying on Sundays, oh
> 
> My love, my love, my love  
> She keeps me warm.


End file.
